


Not On The Menu

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Category: Fallout 3
Genre: Breast Fucking, Cum shot, Dirty Talk, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Ghoul Fetish, Rope Bondage, Smutember 2017, Stripping, Verbal Humiliation, desmonds potty mouth, ghoul dick, ghoul flesh, if your not into ghouls maybe don't read, lots of ghoul, tit fucking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 05:27:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12204786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Marilythscales asked: Desmond Lockheart, day 26, in the drawing room with a candelabra! Striptease, but you're tied up and he's strippin'! I'm in a weird mood!A/N: So, I just realized how terrible I followed the prompt. There's a little stripping, a lot of Desmond being a fucking asshole and tit fucking. Sorry, I'll try to focus on the prompt better next time. XDSee tags for warnings.





	Not On The Menu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marilythscales](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Marilythscales).



If it weren’t for the sharp daggers of laser light coming off the candelabra to your left, the world might have lapsed by without the famous, stoic Lone Wanderer to cobble back the pillars of Post-Apocalyptia. In other words, you might have just died. Desmond Lockheart was to thank, in part, for all the good you'd accomplish in the future. Of course, all of those noble deeds would only come after giving this island the middle finger, but right now you were...

... where were you exactly?

Right, you note the smell of moldy oil paintings and moth-eaten drapery. Calvert Mansion - home sweet home.

Albeit not suicidal, the pain that starts widening between your eyes is enough to make you wish you'd just passed on in your 'sleep.' In the Wasteland, you may be mourned as a messiah… left to fall, over the centuries, into obscurity like folklore. If not for Desmond Lockheart, professional cocksucker and a slimy shithead, lighting a few candles beside you, you may have died before bringing green back to The Wasteland.

Wait, wasn't he the one who threw a tire iron on the back of your head? 

When you started foaming at the mouth - the effects of the Punga fruit still clouding most, if not all of your senses - Desmond didn't think twice about knocking you out. Now all The Great Savior of The Wastes feels is the throb of pain where the metal hit your skull and the soft tug of rope around bare skin…

It's unsurprising but unexpected. You hadn't planned for a lot of things today, getting a smack in the head by your cohort and tied up being one of many.

“... what are you doing,” you ask in a rasping tone; remnants from all the screaming you'd done while high off your gourd. The vague recollection of all that fear - the scissors cutting through the dotted earth... those falling teddy bears... it's enough to make the panic resurge, but you force your eyes closed, count your breaths and shove the existential horror back down. 

It wasn’t real. None of it was real. This, right here, tied to a fucking dining room chair is real. When Desmond finally speaks, it’s as slimy and guttural as you remember and it’s no figment of your imagination either.

“The imbecile wants to know what I'm doing? You need to fucking ask yourself what ‘you’ were doing. I'm keeping you from gobbling my cock like a ten-cent whore, that’s what I have to deal with on top of the bloody hoards outside my doorstep.” He doesn’t sound happy, which is par for the course, but there’s an edge of breathlessness there that begs to question what you'd done to get knocked the fuck out by him as opposed to shot in the face. 

Two-centuries-old clockwork ticks by... tick-tock, slice, ooze, and plop-sink... 

After Desmond blows out the match, he grumbles something that sounds like ‘stupid bitch’ and takes a step back. He looks flustered when you finally look up at him past the bright candlelight as it flicks from a draft in the frail ceiling. Pale moonlight glistens along your thighs and the floor, but Desmond catches all the fire-light. An orange-lined figure cut with old world attire against your beaten blue visage of Apocalyptia. 

“You look like shit,” you mutter; burns filling your temples like burped stomach acid the more your brain tries to come back online. 

The ghoul gives a crusty grunt - thumb stroking the hilt of his shotgun with calculated thought - and insults you with a flare, “Shit, is it? I’ll have you know my literal shit looks better than you do right now, you ignorant fucking child. Going off and letting those savages slice you up? - beyond idiotic.”

Sliced? Right, you intone, feeling around with blurry focus at the pain until the throbbing in the back of your skull pales next to the tight stitches above your right eyebrow.

There’s something inside... or more like nothing, that feels slightly void, but you remember what that is - remember the crack and suckling wetness when they'd pulled that part of you from the partitioned temporal bone. You weren’t a whole person anymore, less than someone without hands or legs or eyes, maybe. Those fruit-addicted zealots had taken a chunk of everything you were and threw it away like a bit of trash.

Some swamp asshole was probably eating it for breakfast right now.

“... is it bad?” It feels bad, but it’s hard to be sure just how bad because Desmond loves laying on the ‘compliments’ any chance he can get. What’s him just being his typical vile self and what’s true hasn’t been easy to decide, and you were just some ignorant fuck to him long before you'd been lobotomized.

“Bad? - bad?! It’s disgusting is what it is,” he remarks, lowering the shotgun only to shove the barrel up under your chin. Your reflexes are shot to hell which makes you look even dumber when your neck snaps back, and a groan runs over your parted teeth. The dusty, half-rotten surveillance room softens at this angle; the edges smearing as your heart throbs in your temples. You hiss a breath through your nostrils and whine, nearly begging him to leave you be like some whiny bitch. 

When your vision clears, the hum of the surveillance station catches your attention behind Desmond's furious irascible expression. Behind him, the squiggly monitors explain why he’s so pissed off. Dozens of those crazy tribals are camped outside the mansion, praying, munching away on rotten fruit and… well, some of them are fornicating in their gleeful ardor as well which is both arousing and unhygienic.

"... shit," you comment, swallowing uncomfortably against the barrel of steel.

He snarls, mustache lifting on one edge. 

Yeah, you see it now. There will be more when the sun comes up, or what counts for morning on this fog-fetid island that you'll be happy to see disappearing in a couple of days. At least you and the ghoul with a gun at your chin have that hatred in common still.

“So, you see my predicament,” Desmond bristles, shoving skin-warmed metal against your trachea until you hack, “I’ve got half-wits fucking outside the place, and a bitch in heat inside - that’s you by the way - trying to get at my cock.”

There’s no way that's why he knocked you out, you think, but the memories are already flooding back, and as they come forward you feel your cheeks start to pound as oppressive as your sore brain.

He growls, jerks his elbows forward and chokes you with the gun barrel all the harder, “I’ve got little enough time as it is to get this bastard once and for all, so let’s make this quick.”

Yeah sure, you were ready to… wait...

... what? 

It isn’t until he’s already plucked the tip of his shotgun off your throat, dropping it with a hard thunk on the table to your left and loosening his tie that realization kicks in. The thought of what he's about to do resurrects those cock-hungry vibes that'd got you in this predicament in the first place. How fast you went from confused and grossed out to ready to swallow some ghoul cock is obscene. He was right, Desmond - the fuckface that he is - was right. You were cock hungry, but you weren’t right in the head anymore. Clearly. 

This wasn’t right… it was beyond inappropriate, but even before the snip-snip, you’d been mulling over propositioning him. Sure, this was supposed to be business, and you never mixed business with pleasure, not unless you wanted to get your face blown off in your sleep for a fatter cut of the goods but... this will have to be your one exception.

Color you curious and desperate for some dick, but your rules could take a step back for now.

He seemed like a rough fuck too, and while those weren’t hard to find in the Wasteland, most guys didn’t know what a fucking clitoris was so most sex ended up being a letdown unless you were throwing some pussy at a ghoul. Desmond was an ancient piece of shit, but he lived in a world where equal pleasure was a bit more mainstream. Thinking about him fucking his way through lab assistants back in the day was partly to blame for you ending up in this position. Your brain must have resorted to primal urges and desires after the backwoods surgery for you to think attacking his crotch was logical.

“Desmond-” you begin, only for him to snarl and jerk your chair in a half circle with the edge of his dress shoe, "... cah-careful!" 

Quick, unexpected movements like that were going to make you puke. The nausea was sticky amidst the discomfort, but despite all that you could feel your cunt start to tingle and flood with lust.

“Keep your fucking mouth shut,” he demanded, making your fingers curl numbly under the unforgiving wrapping of rope around your wrists, “or this erection will disappear faster than your bloody common sense has.”

That would really put a damper on the moment.

“Besides,” he continues, drawing the black-tie from around his sweat-stained collar, revealing a hint of the tattered throat beneath, “I don’t have the time, nor the fucking care to get it back up before Calvert sends more of those mud-lovers to ruin me.”

From anyone else, you wouldn’t have taken this belittlement or half of the other shit he did and said but… missing brain or not, you had a soft spot for him and the spectacle of unbuttoned ivory clasps revealing radiation burnt flesh and blue veins was clearing the fucking floodgates. What was it about ghouls that did it for you? - you stopped trying to analyze it and just gave in at one point, but Desmond was another creature altogether. You could ascribe it to being with someone more experienced, maybe someone who would appreciate a fuck more than a smoothie, but Desmond didn't seem the type to get all worked up over pussy even if he hadn't had any for a couple hundred years.

You want, more than anything - except for that ghoul-dick - to throw a jab back at him, just one for the numerous he's already made and all the rest to come, but the idea of him stopping now bottles you up.

The messy grin he aims down at you is nasty and debased; tarnished with age. With that one sneer, he tells you all you need to know.

When this is all over you’ll put a bullet between his eyes, probably, but right now you swallow and regard the ruined tapestry of skin. The edges of his dress shirt fall open, exposing near-bare hip bones and an exposed seam of abdominal muscle, webbed with thin veins that point down with curved sinew to the bulge behind his slacks. The fat cock straining under his pants is big enough to make the zipper teeth protrude.

It’s overwhelming.

He’s not as preserved as some other ghouls you've been with. All the raw muscle on display worries you. 

Desmond watches you hotly behind his spectacles - mirroring candlelight - and drops his jacket and dress shirt over his shoulders. Yes, the naked sight of him tickles a place deep inside, but if his body's missing patches of burnt skin then what does his cock look like?

He had one at least, so that was reassuring, and the blood flow still worked or else Desmond wouldn’t have a protrusion that massive in his pants. To yourself, behind your teeth, you mutter a thank you to whatever sequence of events kept Desmond’s cock intact. There had been that one ghoul in Underworld that neglected to tell you he’d lost his dick at one point over the centuries… but at least his tongue had still worked…

The candlelight glimmers off his dry muscles; all carmine red and nasty looking. Desmond's beautiful, in his own revolting way. You're sure that once this is over, you’ll hate yourself for letting your physical attraction to an asshole like him get the better of you.

Missing brain, you remind yourself - it's a great scapegoat. You’d never trade your self-respect for cock like this otherwise - well… maybe you would. Who’s to say really? What matters right now is that Desmond starts working on his belt buckle - metal clanking - and drags the worn leather from its cotton sheaths. His patchwork fingers flick the button loose and tugs at the seam until the zipper just unfolds, nearly sentient, over a giant ghoulish cock.

Of course, someone with an attitude as shitty and egotistical as his would have a dick that large.

“Jesus Christ,” you whisper, unable to bite back the quick curse but thankfully, Desmond’s dick doesn’t go flaccid, and he doesn’t give you a verbal lashing even though at this point, that’d be okay. He does, however, say something hot under his breath - something scratchy and irrevocably British before snatching a combat knife up off the table and waves it in your face. 

Shit reflexes, you remember when it takes you a long second to jolt at the sight of it, nearly brushing the tip of your nose with cool edge. The candelabra catches the scuffed brim of steel. Bright, skinny pain throws up in your eyes as the flames refract within. 

The hollowness in your skull aches, but beyond the drugged feeling, you still manage to jolt when the sharp steel slides through the threadbare rags around your neckline, between your breasts and cleaves the tribal shirt right down the middle. 

“I suppose you’re good for something else besides grunt work,” he admits, staring at the way your breasts spill out over the rope he's tied around your ribs, securing your spine to the chair backing, “Fucking isn’t on the menu but these fat tits aren't the worst I’ve seen.”

You frown - that one stung a little, but you’re too mesmerized by the slim heft of his bare torso; scattered in ruined flesh and itchy looking muscle to let it sink in. 

An exposed vein on his cock pulses and you swallow a mouthful of saliva as his pants drop around his ankles and a step closer brings the slimy tip of his cock against your right breast, just above the stiff nipple. For a good long while you think Desmond’s going to jerk off on your bare breasts - it seemed like something he would do… get his rocks off without even bothering with your own aches.

On the monitors behind him, a few grunts from three wriggling, fucking tribals, echo in the surveillance room and just as your nose wrinkles in disgust, Desmond throws the knife to the floor with a dull thunk and grabs two handfuls of your tits. Sudden and gratifying but incredibly undignified - as if you care about your pride anymore. 

The rough, unforgiving skin on his palms scratches your tender nipples, shooting twinges of uncomfortable pleasure down your stomach. It's been awhile since someone squeezed and tugged on your nipples like this - greedy and a little rough. You feel manhandled and let Desmond know how much you love it with a wet moan and soft-spoken 'fuck.'

"This is why I don't work with women," he comments with radiation burns in his throat, oddly vague on the insult, but it's no less cutting.

“... son of a bitch,” you whimper, forgetting yourself but Desmond has apparently forgotten a few things as well - things like the whole ‘no talking rule’ because the sound he makes is one of appreciation. A glob of warm spit falls between the golden crease of soft skin and with a groan of something bellying disgust and arousal, you glare up at him. A string of saliva hangs off the tip of his tongue, falling between your tits. His glasses are askew, slumped on the slight ridge of nasal bone as he drools all over your cleavage.

He’s going to tit fuck you… It should have been obvious. 

Even when you first stumbled into the Calvert Mansion, joining him betwixt and between gunfire, Desmond had ogled your chest in a way that was both unimpressed and lusty. At the time you'd shrugged it off. Most men, even old ghouls, still liked big tits and it didn't sway your opinion of him much. He was still as ugly on the inside as an inside-out mirelurk

He was a nasty man… and yet you were and are all too eager - frothing with it nearly - to get that dick all over you. Hell, he could smack you in the face with it at this point, and you’d take it.

When Desmond lifts a bare, flayed thigh and positions his cock under the pressed swell of your chest, you arch your spine against the rope, curl your fingers and toes and moan like the whore he’s been calling you all week. Fuck it, you think with wet lips, and a desperate tongue against the back of your teeth, Desmond’s cock was worth a little humiliation on your part. 

The thick, hot slide of his dick between your soft, snug breasts is uneven but slippery from all his saliva. He's hot - hotter than a smoothie, but you knew that.

Scar tissue cuts between your tender breasts but the sharp tickles are their own reward when the first real, unfiltered snarl comes out of his mouth. You look up with hooded eyes and watch as Desmond grimaces as he fucks your tits in slow jarring motions; the softer cockhead bumping up between your clavicles. If you smile through this, he’ll lose a bit of the power he thinks he has and that idea is just as attractive as the curl of his stomach, rippling with exposed muscle and red-web-work. His hips jut and drop in tuned with short, hard growls.

He’s a surprisingly quiet man when it comes down to it, you note, licking your lips until they’re red and swollen. You pegged him for someone that enjoyed a shit load of dirty talk, but he's all about the breathy groans, and that's fine. The way his throat rattles around his hard breathing and timed sounds of pleasure are nearly good enough to get you off. 

After every other thrust, his milk-stained eyes dart to your mouth. You can see him considering it, maybe fantasizing about fucking your mouth as he squeezes his cock between your breasts. It'd be worth a mouthful of cum to see him break down and shove this monster between your teeth, you think, grinning.

The fingers he has dug into your soft skin ache, but it’s a good pain… much better than the throb and pound in your skull. Still, some mutual pleasure would help your headache, but Desmond doesn’t have time for that of course. He wouldn't give you a little mercy even if he weren't running late. 

When this is all done, and you’ve got ghoul cum flowing down your chin and cleavage, you’ll get yourself off in no time. 

If the rope wasn’t so tight, you might have been able to roll your hip down on the antique chair and get yourself off that way, but Desmond hadn’t been fucking around with the restraints.

His eyes linger on your upturned mouth, scarred brows pulling up in pained pleasure and you wiggle your tongue between your lips in good fun.

“You wanna stick it in my mouth?” you grin, rocking back and forth as his cock pops and disappears in quick succession between your tits, “don’t you? - go on, skull fuck me, you asshole.”

“Ugh," he groans, squeezing your tits until it hurts, "Keep tha-that cock sucker shut!” He snarls it, pushing your breasts tightly together and starts knocking the back of the chair against the table edge as he fucks the fat flesh. You’ll make fun of him later. A ghoul with a nasty mouth that gets all tongue-tied during a little fun - it’s almost enough to make you laugh, but the smug grin on your face is enough to get his hackles up for now.

“And take that fucking look off your face! Bloody stupid, Twat,” he insults with half the venom you'd expect.

You chuckle insanely at him and watch as his eyes flutter just before he gives a hard thrust, tears his finger out of your tits and seizing his cock in one fist and your hair in the other. Your neck cracks as he rips your head back, pressing the head of his cock just under your lower lip. Grip in your hair - fingers tight - the edge of his thumb bumps the knotted line of stitches above your eyebrow, sprouting fire. 

The first squirt of cum backwashes off your chin to your tits and his rattling exhale, thankfully ruins your focus on the pain. 

Desmond says your name as he jerks himself off on your face - hot surges of cum flooding under your mouth and flowing off your chin to your heaving, ruddy chest.

The soft sound of chanting and banging tribals over the speaker system adds an edge of surrealism to the moment, enough that your brain does a little jolt as the last spurt of ghoul cum leaks against the side of your mouth where Desmond rubs the soft head of his cock. His knuckles brush your cheek as he gives the mottled dick one last squeeze from root to tip; milking that last little dollop out.

“Oooh, yeah,” he growls, sounding like someone who just blew a good load and staked his claim in the process. 

The rope burns around your ankles and wrists as you tug, licking what cum you can off your lips and chin. He pulls his cockhead away just before your tongue can graze it and the mournful sound you make is enough to force someone like Desmond to laugh in without so much of the usual malice.

He pulls his fist out of your hair, pats your warm, red cheek and like the right bastard he is, leaves you there while he deals with the ‘visitors' outside. 

All alone, still tied up, you decide that the unresolved sexual tension between your legs is worse than the missing chunk of brain and the events leading up to it as well. The drying cum isn't all that pleasant either.

By the time Desmond’s done lobbing grenades off the balcony, blasting most of the tribal fuck-piles into bite-sized pieces - of which you can see in green detail on the monitor screens - his cum is dried, and you’re half asleep with severe brain trauma.

“Alright, enough fucking lollygagging,” his hard, unapologetic candor mixes perfectly with the sharp tip of the combat knife, cutting away the rope with sharp jerks until you to sink weakly in your seat. There’s no fucking way you’re up for a morning of bloodshed and island hiking... or polite conversation for that matter. 

You’re about to tell Desmond to kindly go fuck himself when a pinch eats through your arm, and the surge of adrenaline and heat livens your nerves.

Fuck!

“F-fuck you!" you manage; eyes blown wide, "You fucking filled me up with fucking Psycho you fucking asshole!” 

You twist and screech, falling to the floor in your numb-limbed haste to tackle him for thinking for one damn second that was something you'd agree with - fucking drugging you!? The poison, so hot and stimulating - awakening every synapse until it feels like you're firing on nuclear fusion - is worse than before, coupled with the pain in your head. Psycho heightens everything, including the razor-sharp cutting at the back of your head. 

What an asshole.

“Fuck!” 

Desmond throws an old riot vest at you, kicks your loaded plasma pistol across the floor and chuckles darkly. He’s dressed in his slacks and dress shoes but shirtless and bends his white spine over the console to start logging something in on the terminals. Engaging the failsafe, you think as all the screens start turning red. Everything is going by at a million miles an hour, and it's all his fucking fault.

“Alright, you ignorant fuck” Desmond cajoles, lifting his combat shotgun in one hand and throws a hateful, eager look in your direction, “you get me, Calvert, that rotten son of a bitch, and we’ll see about adding a juicy morsel to your reward. A cunt as cock hungry as you needs a little extra incentive.”

Past the humming of your heart, it’s hard to pay much attention to him, or the pain for that matter, but you can’t stop looking at him as annoying as that should be. On the floor, with your tits still bare and covered in dried cum, Desmond grabs at the bulk of his crotch and grins down his glasses.

“I’ve got your motivation right here, you dumb bitch. Let’s blow this bastard's head clean off, and I’ll make sure to keep up my end of the bargain.”

It should disturb you that you’re willing to kill a lot of misguided people for some ghoul dick and a handful of caps. You might have had some other motivation for doing this before the snip-snip, but you can’t remember all that well and his cock sounds like a pretty sweet treat so, with three-quarters of your brain left, you shrug on the vest, load your pistol and haul you psycho-riddled ass up and off to stop a brain in a jar. 

All for some dick...

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed it despite it veering off into humiliation territory. Let me know, if you have the time, what you thought of this. Thanks for reading! <3
> 
>  
> 
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>  [TWITTER](https://twitter.com/LydiaBrim)   
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